Evidence of Comfort
by AlabasterShadow
Summary: New Johnlock, fluff, VERY mild hurt/comfort (someone's not feeling well!) :) I may add more if you request it.
1. Chapter 1

Prelude:

"This way!" Sherlock bellowed in his deep baritone, as he disappeared around the corner of the dilapidated shack, into which the assailant had just run moments before. John sighed, tried to shake out the rain that had already begun to soak into his sandy brown hair, and picked up his pace. Lestrade was not far behind, whispering clipped orders to the surrounding officers, and getting into position. John ran past the side of the house, feet splashing in rapidly expanding puddles as he went, until he finally found Sherlock crouched underneath a windowsill. He quickly dropped low to the ground and crept over to squat beside the lithe man underneath the window. Sherlock motioned to him to remain quiet, pale face intent as he listened to the sounds inside. Only a few tense moments had passed when they finally heard what sounded like the entirety of Scotland Yard crashing through the door. At that instant, the muscles in Sherlock's body sprang to action as he leapt up with a shout, causing John to curse and fall sideways, giving the taller man a wide berth. Sherlock stood firm in front of the window, out of which the assailant was just attempting to escape. Sherlock grappled with the man for a moment, until an officer was able to grab him from behind and pull him back inside the cabin. Sherlock smiled smugly as he turned to John, who was just picking himself off of the soggy ground. John smiled at him reassuringly, and tried to duck underneath an eave, to keep himself dry. Sherlock hadn't been bothered by the weather previously, but now that the case was solved, he looked up questioningly at the grey sky and finally noticed the cold rain that was falling down rather persistently.

Ch. 1

John woke up as the sun fell across his face, shining through his eyelids. He had slept later than normal, as they had only gotten back five hours earlier, despite his protests. Sherlock had wanted to remain outside the cottage, just in case the assailant's brother returned. Lestrade assured them that they had men on the scene, but Sherlock had just snorted derisively and commented on the inability of the Yard to find the criminal if he was standing right in front of them. John had urged him to rethink this, citing the cold rain and the darkening sky, but Sherlock would not listen and simply flipped his thick collar up against the wind, settling in for a long night.

And a long night it was. When they had finally caught their man, John had been completely knackered, not to mention soaked to the skin, and wanted only to curl up in his warm bed—which he did almost immediately, barely stopping to change into dry clothes.

John sat up and stretched, before slipping out of bed and padding to the door of his bedroom, grabbing and pulling on a navy wool jumper along the way. He opened the door and walked out in to the silent hallway, making his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. After he had his breakfast set and the tea was softly steaming in his mug, he grabbed his laptop and made his way into the living room to settle in for the morning. He stopped dead in his tracks when he was greeted by his flatmate on the couch, still in his clothes from last night, stretched out on his stomach with limbs draping on the floor, sound asleep.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, setting his breakfast and laptop on the coffee table. "Sherlock, are you serious? Why are you still in those damp clothes? You'll catch pneumonia." Sherlock stirred briefly but made no response. John sighed heavily through his nose, annoyed at his flatmate for being so careless with his health yet again. He walked over to the couch and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, shaking him gently. The taller man's coat was still quite damp and chilled, giving John an indication as to how the rest of his clothes must feel.

"Come on, Sherlock, stop being stubborn, you've got to change out of those wet clothes." John shook his shoulder once again, this time drawing a slight groan from his flatmate as he shifted away from John's hand. This shift caused Sherlock's face to slide further into view, where John saw that it was flushed pink. A cold sensation bloomed in the pit of John's stomach as he caught sight of his friend's rosy and sweating face. "Sherlock?" he said a bit more gently as he reached out to touch his flatmate's forehead. It was shockingly warm.

"Christ, Sherlock, you're burning up!" John pushed his growing fear away and snapped into doctor mode, flipping his flatmate onto his back and easing him out of his long black coat, throwing it to the floor in his haste. He felt Sherlock's shirt, which was also damp and somehow still chilled, even against the man's hot and feverish skin. John hurried out of the living room and down the hall, where he burst into Sherlock's room (a place he would typically never enter without explicit instruction) and opened several drawers of a nearby dresser. He quickly pulled out the first warm clothes he could find—black sweat pants and a thick maroon long sleeved shirt—and ran back to the living room, grabbing Sherlock's slippers as he went. Without even thinking about it and with the precision of a practiced physician, he stripped Sherlock out of his wet clothes and redressed him in the dry ones, carefully securing the slippers onto his freezing feet. In another situation, John might have taken more time to appreciate the scene, but this was not the time. Scanning Sherlock's prone form, he made sure that his flatmate was warm and dry before disappearing again, but this time to the bathroom to grab a few paracetamols and a glass of water. He returned and knelt at the edge of the couch, next to Sherlock's head, and shook him again, this time with more purpose.

"Sherlock," he urged, trying to wake the fevered man, "Sherlock I need you to sit up for me, okay?" Sherlock's eyes pressed together tighter and he moaned softly, trying to face away from the noise. "Come on Sherlock, I know you can hear me. You are ill and you have to drink this." Sherlock weakly tried to push John away, muttering something that could have been "no."

"Please Sherlock," John plead, starting to feel his worry creep back in. At the sound of his genuine entreaty, Sherlock sighed softly and turned his head slowly, looking over at his flatmate with glassy eyes. He saw John's face, etched with concern, only a few inches from his own. At the sight of Sherlock's opened eyes, John smiled with relief. "I need you to take this for me, okay? They're going to lower your fever."

"Boring," Sherlock muttered softly, unable to put much force behind it. John handed over the medicine packets and the glass of water. Sherlock's long fingers brushed against his own, causing a pang of heat to cascade through him. He had knelt much closer to Sherlock than he had realized, in his worry. He watched his flatmate carefully take his medicine and started to stand up, only to feel a warm hand grasp his own from below. John turned around, surprised, to see Sherlock looking up at him, now shifting to sit up. "Wait—" Sherlock began, but stopped and looked away in discomfort, hand still locked onto John's. John looked at him with confusion until realization slowly fell across his features.

"Is it okay if I sit out here for a bit?" John asked kindly, not wanting to force Sherlock to ask for the comfort he so obviously needed. Sherlock looked relieved, though exhausted. He just shrugged noncommittally and moved his legs off of the couch, to give John room to sit next to him. John plopped down on the couch and grabbed the remote to watch some telly. Sherlock had settled in deeper against the couch, closing his eyes. John watched the colorful advertisements flit across the screen, unable to concentrate while feeling the heat coming off of Sherlock in waves. Suddenly, he felt a heavy weight against his shoulder and looked over in surprise. Sherlock's soft, dark brown curls tickled against his face as he discovered the source of the weight. His flatmate had fallen asleep against him, snoring softly and nuzzling deeper into the warm woolen fabric of John's jumper. John's astonishment slowly faded into contentment as he watched his friend sleeping peacefully against him. He smiled and turned back to continue watching whatever show was playing, not paying attention to it for a moment.

Ch. 2

 _Heh-haatchhieww!_ Sherlock sighed after sneezing for what seemed like the hundredth time that hour, grabbing a few tissues from the box in his lap. He heard clattering in the kitchen, where his flatmate was making tea.

"Bless!" came a call amidst the sound of teacups chiming together. Sherlock sniffed petulantly, angry at his own predicament. He hated being ill. He hated even more that he was not able to master his symptoms and hide his illness from his friend. He still felt a tickling sensation at the back of his sinuses, creating a delightful addition to the pounding in his head. He blew his nose angrily, if it were possible to angrily blow one's nose, and threw the tissues in the bin, his face returning to its previous scowl. He had been sick for three days—actually 3,840 minutes and 48 seconds, but who's counting? His fever had broken, much to John's relief, after a day and a half, so now he was just left with the completely average and tedious symptoms of the common cold.

"Boring, completely and utterly boring," Sherlock muttered thickly, sniffing again. He leaned back against the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, scanning his mind for any successful cures for the common cold—nothing. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes until he heard John enter the room with steaming mugs of tea with honey.

"Here you are, Sherlock" John said as he handed over one of the mugs. He settled himself in the armchair across the room and took a sip of his own tea after blowing softly across the top, eyes calmly skimming the newspaper for any interesting tidbits. Sherlock held the warm mug in his hands, basking in the steam for a while, before sipping carefully on the hot liquid, feeling the honey soothe his scratchy throat almost instantly.

 _Heh—heh—seriously? Heh, hitchxch!_ Sherlock stifled another sneeze into his elbow, attempting to balance his mug to keep it from spilling with his jerky movements.

"Bless" John repeated with amusement, his eyes taking in his rather pathetic friend, as he struggled to hold his tea and grab tissues at the same time. "How are you feeling?"

"Bored. Miserable. Tedious," came the curt reply from across the room. "Lestrade won't return my texts about new cases. I suspect my dutiful brother has something to do with this" he added darkly, shifting into a position that can only be described as 'pouty.' John smiled gently, remembering his own call to Lestrade to persuade him to ignore Sherlock for the next few days. Keeping him on the couch was work enough, let alone off a case.

Sherlock looked across the room at his friend, who was absorbed in his newspaper, and took in the older man's broad shoulders, usually hidden within thick sweaters, but now displayed rather well in a thin t-shirt. His gaze raised to drink in John's tanned skin and dark blue eyes, scanning intently on whatever article had caught his interest. Suddenly those eyes rose and locked with his own, causing an icy bolt of fear to shoot through his abdomen. Sherlock fought the feeling and kept his gaze firm, haughtily returning the eye contact.

"Yes?" John asked after Sherlock said nothing.

"Just observing," Sherlock answered with another sniff. John rolled his eyes and continued with his reading, a soft blush rising to his cheeks, which did not go unnoticed. Sherlock licked his lips and rubbed his aching temples, giving in to the pain that he felt there.

"Headache?"

"It's getting rather annoying," Sherlock replied grumpily. Surprised that he hadn't received a sarcastic quip, John moved from the chair to sit next to Sherlock, gently touching his head with the back of his fingers.

"Well, you don't have a fever. It could be sinus pressure." John carefully put his hands on either side of Sherlock's head, brushing aside his unruly curls, pressing firmly and rubbing in slow circles. Sherlock leaned into the man's strong hands without complaint, finally feeling some relief from the unrelenting pressure. They stayed like this for a while, when suddenly Sherlock pulled away, causing John to look at him with concern.

 _Heh-hatchEEEW!_ Sherlock sneezed to the side, away from John, causing both men to jump. "UGH!" Sherlock groaned loudly and plopped headfirst across John's lap, causing the older man to stiffen and look down at him in alarm. Sherlock said nothing further but settled in, wrapping one arm around John's waist and resting his cheek on the man's muscular thigh. John slowly placed his hand on the other man's back, rubbing soft circles of comfort, musing about this development. Sherlock hummed softly with contentment, soon drifting off to sleep. John was left alone with just the sound of Sherlock's soft snoring and his own thoughts. His memories drifted, as they usually did, to a few weeks back when their friendship had taken a drastic turn.

"JOHN!" Sherlock called as he came in the door, slamming it shut behind him. "John! Where are you? I solved the case!" He burst into the living room with a clatter, dropping his things as he went. He found John making dinner in the kitchen, who greeted him with a smile and asked for the details. Sherlock happily explained the results of the case, with John listening intently, tending to their dinner and taking it off the stove. As John moved away to grab some plates, he accidentally brushed close to Sherlock, causing the tall man to stiffen and back up. John looked up at him questioningly, uncertain as to why he had caused this reaction. Had Sherlock looked- scared? No. Sherlock had quickly returned to an air of nonchalance as he sat down at the table, silently watching John put away the extra food and turning around to regard him.

"Sherlock, I've been meaning to ask you something," John began with a forced air of calm. He had noticed this reaction in Sherlock for a few weeks now and was preparing to enact an experiment of his own. He slowly walked closer to the younger man, watching his face intently. Sherlock's eyes widened at his flatmate's approach.

"Wh-what are you doing, John?" He asked nervously, his eyes searching the other man's, trying to piece together enough evidence to understand. John continued to move forward until he was looming over the seated man, staring down only a few inches from him. Sherlock looked up expectantly, grey eyes meeting dark blue. John bent down to make his face even with his flatmate's and stopped, watching the man's reaction. Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion but didn't move away, licking his lips. John smiled softly and moved forward, pushing his soft lips against Sherlock's own. The feeling of John's lips against his own shot a bolt of lightning through Sherlock so strong that he jerked backwards, almost falling out of his chair. John pulled back, anxiously awaiting his friend's reaction. Sherlock looked up at him with wild and confused eyes. He stood up to his full height, now looking down at his close friend—his best friend, who was watching patiently. Sherlock, thoughts and scenarios running through his head at full speed, cleared his throat and finally spoke,

"Interesting," he said simply, causing his friend to frown slightly.

"Interesting?" John asked with confusion. "That's… it?" He hoped he managed to suppress the disappointment from his voice. He hadn't. Sherlock watched him silently before raising a hand to brush the curls from his face.

"Well, John, I can't make any deductions before I have enough evidence." He smirked, bent down to John's height, pressing his lips against the older man's more firmly than before. He felt John's lips smile against his own as he returned the kiss, running his strong fingers through his flatmate's curly hair.

Return:

John was interrupted from his reverie by a grunt from his sleeping friend, or lover, or whatever they were these days. He looked down fondly at Sherlock and continued to massage soft circles into his back. John leaned his head back onto couch and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth from his friend, as he too drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up a couple of hours later, feeling the chilly absence of Sherlock's warm body. He slowly opened his eyes and searched for his roommate, who was nowhere to be seen in the dim, empty room. John yawned and stretched his arms- a little sore from holding his body in one place for so long. He stood up, scratching his head absently. _Where could Sherlock have gone?_ John wondered as he padded into the kitchen, still straining to hear any noise from his friend. When he found the kitchen empty, he started walking all around the flat, but found each room empty. John furrowed his brow and took his cell phone out of his jeans pocket, feeling his frustration growing. He quickly typed out a text before angrily shoving his phone back into his pocket.

 _Sherlock, where the hell are you? -JW_

John could not believe it. How could Sherlock leave after he had _explicitly_ told him that he was still too sick to leave the flat? John stomped back into the kitchen, roughly pulling out pots and pans to make dinner. While he was waiting for the pot to boil, he peeked out of the window. The earlier sunshine had waned, leaving a gloomy and chilly November evening. A perfect night to make Sherlock sicker. He has no common sense! John rubbed his face with one hand before letting out a deep breath.

"It's not my problem," John muttered aloud to no one in particular. If Sherlock wants to go traipsing about on some case, that's his choice. But deep down, John was worried, and that just made him even angrier. He couldn't deny that their friendship—relationship? –was something more now that he clearly had no control over his feelings. He tried to push away his thoughts and had resumed cooking his dinner when his cellphone vibrated.

 _Case –SH_

John snorted in derision when the text confirmed what he had already assumed. Once he had finished dinner, he decided that he was _not_ worried and was not going to think about Sherlock any further. After he had cleared the dishes, he plopped down in his chair and flicked on the telly, pretending to watch something while his eyes kept creeping towards the clock on the mantle. 7:30. John forced his eyes back to the screen. 7:32. He tried again. 7:35. He quickly ran a hand through his sandy hair and stood up, deciding to tidy up the living room and pick up the mountain of errant tissues that had built up near Sherlock's spot on the couch. 7:46. John wrenched his eyes away from the clock and grabbed a book he had been reading, settling himself back down into his armchair. 7:48. _Damnit, Sherlock!_ He forced himself to look down at the book and let himself get lost in the words.

John had finally managed to take his mind off of his sick roommate when he was interrupted by the sound of muffled coughing from the other side of the front door. John set his mouth in a grim line and put down his book, waiting for Sherlock to enter. Moments later, Sherlock swept into the flat, black trench coat flapping behind him. John's heart fluttered despite his frustration as he took in the man's tall, lithe form and his pristine, angular face, only slightly disrupted by his bright pink nose. Sherlock sniffed slightly while taking off his coat and scarf and turned to John, who was watching him expectantly.

"Well it took a while- typical Scotland Yard bungling, but I solved it," Sherlock declared in a baritone made deeper from congestion, looking satisfied with himself. John looked at him incredulously before exclaiming:

"I can't believe you went out in the cold after you promised me you wouldn't!" He realized he sounded like a nagging mother, but dammit, he was worried about his friend. Sherlock looked a little surprised but covered by rolling his eyes.

"I couldn't stay here forever, John. There was work to be done. I'm fine." The congestion in his voice, followed by a slight sniff undermined his comments, but John just shrugged his shoulders and decided not to push it further. Sherlock grabbed his laptop and settled on the couch, no doubt still looking at information from the case, while John resumed reading. The flat was quiet aside from the occasional sniff and the tapping sound of Sherlock typing. After a short while, Sherlock's breathing suddenly became slightly irregular; John looked over out of the corner of his eye, not letting Sherlock have the satisfaction of seeing his concern. Sherlock had stopped typing, lips parted, his eyes scrunched closed and buried his face in his left elbow.

 _Heh—hih—hetchoo! Heh-tchoo!_ Sherlock sniffed and went back to typing as if nothing happened. John pursed his lips together but kept reading. Within seconds, Sherlock had stopped typing again.

 _Heh—heh—_ Sherlock rubbed absently at his nose, trying to quiet the tickle. _Hih—heh—_ his breathing just became more desperate as he tried to hold back the sneeze. _Hehh—hhah—ehh._ Sherlock's lips were parted as the sneeze built but would not release. John watched the scene from the corner of his eye, frustration melting into sympathy for the obvious discomfort his roommate was feeling. Sherlock let out a soft frustrated groan, as his breathing showed no signs of evening out. John bit his lip, trying to ignore Sherlock's hitching breaths. _Hehhh-hiih- oh come on!_ Sherlock growled, causing John to fully look over at his roommate, who had put his laptop off to the side and was sitting with his hands steepled in front of his face.

John couldn't take it any longer; he stood up and moved over to his friend, who looked up at him in surprise, lips still parted in expectation. John gently grabbed Sherlock's wrists and held them at his sides, he leaned closer to Sherlock and softly pressed his lips to the man's wriggling nose. Sherlock jerked backwards, arms still trapped by John's strong hands. His eyes widened in panic as he gasped a deep breath inwards and jerked his face to the side, just over John's shoulder.

 _HHHETSCHOoo! HATCHeooo! AchoO! HEH- Htxgh! Hitchoo! HET'KNXT!_ Sherlock tried unsuccessfully to stifle the desperate sneezes as they tore themselves from his throat. His face reddened as he sniffed liquidly and tried to wriggle away from John's grasp. John let go of Sherlock's hands and stepped back smugly. Sherlock quickly grabbed a handful of tissues and blew his nose, turning away from the sandy-haired man standing in front of him. When he was finished, he coughed quietly and turned back to John.

"And what, might I ask, was that for?" He asked hoarsely.

"Yeah, because you were really handling it fine yourself." John answered with a grin. He couldn't help smiling, his heart was still racing. "I can see that the fresh air really helped your sneezing." Sherlock pursed his lips and sniffed again.

"Perhaps I was a little premature in my judgement," Sherlock answered primly, stifling a few hoarse coughs in his fist. He sighed and turned his eyes downward, allowing his exhaustion to show. John softened at once, despite himself, and sat down next to his sniffly friend. Sherlock allowed himself to rest slightly against his roommate, but did not look at him. John softly grazed his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls, trying to reassure his friend that he was only trying to comfort him. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head into John's strong hand. John allowed his gaze to wander slowly over Sherlock's features, drinking in his long lashes and sharp, angular cheekbones. After a while, John moved his hand from Sherlock's curls and draped his arm over his shoulders, pulling the tall man further into his arms. Sherlock did not open his eyes, but made a soft contented noise, and nuzzled his head into John's warm jumper. John rested his chin atop Sherlock's head, enjoying the intimacy of the moment.

Suddenly, John felt a strong tickle growing in his sinuses. He just barely had time to shift and lean away from Sherlock to sneeze loudly into this elbow. _HURRRSHOO!_ Sherlock snapped his eyes open and looked at him in surprise. John turned his head to look back at him, looking equally surprised.

Uh oh.


	3. Chapter 3

Ch. 3

Sherlock had soon after found a reason to excuse himself from John's embrace, leaving the older man confused but mostly unfazed. John sniffed quietly as he stood up, stretched, and plodded off to his room to change for bed.

Hearing John's door close, Sherlock let out a small breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. Guilt bubbled up in his chest, causing his cheeks to redden, as he stood behind his own closed door. After hearing John's congested sneeze during their … What do people call it? Cuddling? Sherlock sniffed derisively but couldn't help but smile tenderly in remembrance. He had felt so safe, so… accepted… in John's arms. He could admit just to himself that he would rather have not left his friend's arms so soon, if not for realizing that he had gotten him sick. _How could I have been so careless?_ John obviously hadn't realized it yet—it takes most people longer to see what was in front of them. But Sherlock- He knew what had happened immediately and couldn't forgive himself. Sighing, he grabbed the box of tissues sitting on his dresser and plopped onto his bed. Stretching his long legs out, he steepled his fingers under his chin and lost himself in his mind palace.

Morning took its time arriving—or at least it seemed that way to Sherlock. Typically, when he spent his nights going over the details of a case, the hours flew by; but last night, the silence was often broken by the distant sounds of John sneezing and coughing in his sleep. Sherlock pressed his eyes together, his mouth set in a grim line. _It's time to face the music_ , he thought with resignation. He climbed out of bed and slowly made his way to John's room. He heard the sounds of muffled coughing and knocked softly. As soon as he heard a congested "cobe in," he peeked his head in the door, afraid to disturb his friend.

John wearily blinked his eyes against the bright light that was pouring into his room. His head was pounding and he had barely gotten any sleep the night before. He coughed into his pillow before struggling to sit up, eyes creased with tension. "Yeah, Sherlock?" he asked when his friend didn't say anything. He wasn't even coming into the room! John wondered what his friend was up to now. He seemed- nervous. That can't be right, his cold must be affecting his brain. He shifted up further to get a better look when Sherlock finally blurted,

"I'm going out," he said evenly, barely glancing up.

"Oh…alright," John replied, disappointment evident through his stuffy voice. He coughed again into his fist. He blinked as the room was suddenly dark again. John ran a hand through his hair as his lips turned downward in a frown. It wasn't as if he thought Sherlock was going to climb into bed with him and stroke his hair—he snorted at the thought. But, he had hoped- _huh-HURSHOOO_ – his thoughts were interrupted by a harsh sneeze that left his head throbbing. _Ugh_ , John thought miserably as he slid back down into his blankets, burying his face into his too-warm pillow.

Sherlock heard John's sneeze as he was donning his coat and scarf, his mouth tightening around the edges. Seeing John so miserable had made his heart ache. He felt at a loss for how to ease his friend's discomfort, especially when he was the one who caused it. _He must be furious with me,_ Sherlock thought sadly as he stepped out of the building. He turned right and hurried down the sidewalk, coat flapping behind him in his haste.

About an hour later, John stirred, groaning miserably. He blearily took stock of his health—nasal congestion? Check. Chest congestion? Check. Headache? Check. Sneezing-Fever-Chills? Check. Check. Check. He shivered at the realization. Definitely still sick. He sighed and slowly got out of bed and made his way to the kitchen to make some tea, coughing periodically. He stumbled out into the kitchen, greeted with a chilly silence. _Sherlock must still be out then_ , he thought dejectedly. He stifled a sneeze in his shoulder as he filled the tea kettle with water. As the kettle was heating up, he started sifting through the cabinets, trying to find some paracetamol. He grabbed the packet and saw there was only one dose left. John sighed and noted that he'd have to go to the shop to get some more medicine. _Maybe I can ask Molly to grab some_ , he thought absently, as he took the last dose. He was just adding some honey to his newly steaming cup of tea when he heard the keys in the door.

Sherlock swept into the sitting room, his hands filled with paper bags filled with various items. He quickly set his bags on the table and set about emptying them, not even taking time to notice John watching him from the kitchen. He grabbed two boxes of tissues and set them on the table, before returning to the bag to reveal two packages of paracetamol. John's face broke into an incredulous smile as he watched the tall, lithe man emptying his bags of what must have been half a pharmacy. His smile faltered slightly as a sneeze ripped his way through his throat _huh—HURRRSHOO. Heh- heh- HuhSHOO_ causing Sherlock to jump and drop the box he was holding.

"Sorry," John said, a blush rising to his cheeks. The sneezes had left him feeling light headed. He set his cup down and walked over to where Sherlock was standing, picking up the box he had dropped. It was ice cold. Surprised, John looked down and was astonished to see that it was raspberry sorbet—his favorite. Sherlock grabbed the box from him and walked to the freezer, muttering about keeping it cold.

Sherlock took a deep breath as he was placing the sorbet next to the ice tray. He hadn't expected John to be up and out of bed when he returned, much less clearly suffering from a fever and chills. Guilt threatened to overtake him when he suddenly heard a chuckle—dangerously close to a giggle—from across the room. Confused, Sherlock turned around to see John watching him with a strange smile across his pale face.

"You got me raspberry sorbet," John stated, feeling almost giddy despite his pounding headache.

"Who said it's for you?" Sherlock asked haughtily, feeling exposed.

"Well considering that I've had to listen to you lecture me for an hour about how lemon sorbet is _clearly_ superior, I think it's a fair assumption." John giggled again, amusement and warmth bubbling up to the surface. His chuckling led into a coughing fit, which subsided after a few moments. It was then that he noticed Sherlock had crossed the room and was rubbing soothing circles in his back while looking at him with worried eyes. "Thanks," John said softly, locking eyes with his friend. Sherlock looked down, his cheeks turning red, and stepped away. John frowned and grabbed one of the box of tissues Sherlock had unpacked. He sank down into his chair and leaned his head back, closing his eyes wearily.

A little while later, John awoke to the sound of Sherlock typing away at his laptop. It was a familiar, comforting sound. He coughed softly as he sat up, and watched Sherlock look over at him in concern before forcing his eyes back to the screen. John sighed and turned on the telly, trying to ignore the aching in his head.

Sherlock watched John, noting the creases around his eyes giving away his headache. He was just about to suggest that John take more medication when he noticed that John was shivering. Sherlock's eyes widened and he stood up and grabbed a blanket from the couch, moving quickly to drape the thick cover over his friend. John looked up at him in surprise.

"Thanks," John said gratefully, watching his flatmate with care. Sherlock nodded wordlessly at him and went to return to his laptop. A strong hand grasped him around the wrist, forcing him to stay in place. Sherlock looked back at John in confusion. "What's wrong, Sherlock? Are you still feeling sick?" John asked hoarsely, coughing into his fist. Sherlock felt even more guilty.

"Nothing's wrong, John. It is I who should be inquiring about your health." Sherlock put a warm hand on John's shoulder to try to ease his worry. John didn't believe it for a moment.

"You've been acting weird all day—what is it?" John pressed, shifting in his chair to see Sherlock's face more clearly. Sherlock stared at his friend, face blank, as he tried to figure out the right thing to say. John watched him patiently, giving him time to find the words.

"I…" Sherlock tried to think of a proper lie to appease his friend, but seeing John's tired bloodshot eyes, watching him with nothing but concern, he couldn't deceive him. "I thought you'd be angry with me," he said with downcast eyes, taking care not to reveal any emotion in his tone.

John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Angry with you?" he asked honestly. "Why would I be angry with you?" He ran a hand through his hair, trying to understand.

Sherlock stared at him, gauging whether John was being purposely slow. "You're sick. It's my fault that you caught my cold. I was careless," he explained morosely. He started when he heard John laughing. "What?" Sherlock asked, eyes glinting angrily.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, still chuckling. "It's not your fault I'm sick!" He pressed on as soon as he saw Sherlock's mouth open to protest. "Okay, okay, maybe it's _technically_ because of you that I'm sick. But you didn't give this to me on purpose. I chose to be close to you and risk it. I am  not angry with you." He coughed harshly at the end of his sentence.

"Really?" Sherlock watched him disbelievingly, looking for any signs of deception. He saw nothing besides his amused but very sick friend staring back up at him.

"Mhm," John said, "besides, you bought me sorbet! If anything, that makes up for a few germs." He smiled broadly at Sherlock, who was attempting to hide his blushing face.

"Your fever must be climbing, John, if you insist on making these wild assumptions," Sherlock responded, placing his long, blessedly cool fingers on John's forehead. John chuckled, clearing his throat with some discomfort. "Would you... like some tea?" Sherlock asked uncertainly. John nodded, a thankful smile brightening his pallid complexion.

John was awakened a short time later by Sherlock's hand gently shaking his shoulder. "Wha-?" John muttered tiredly, trying to figure out what was happening.

"Your tea is ready, John. But perhaps you would be warmer in your room?" Sherlock was holding a steaming blue mug of tea in one hand, using the other to remove the heavy blanket from John's legs. John nodded in acquiescence and stood up, moving to his bedroom with care, stopping to stifle a sneeze into his elbow. Sherlock followed patiently behind him, keeping the tea steady in his hands.

When John had settled himself under the covers, Sherlock set the tea carefully on his nightstand and looked down at him, assessing whether his friend required anything further.

"Thanks, Sherlock, really." John said gratefully. "I think I'm just going to try to sleep this off." He took a sip of the tea, the warm liquid soothing his scratchy throat. He set the cup down, and slunk down onto his side, shivering slightly. Suddenly, he felt a weight press down on the other side of the bed, followed by a great warmth enveloping his back. Sherlock had sidled under the covers and was wrapped around the smaller man, one arm draped over his chest. John was shocked. "Sherlock, you…" John began, but was cut off by his friend shushing him. Sherlock pulled his friend closer to him, almost protectively.

Sherlock rumbled softly, "Just go to sleep, John. I'll be here."


End file.
